I read your book—well, OK, I didn’t really read it. Not the whole thing. But I did read the free sample available at Amazon (because, you know, free stuff), in which you said you wrote your book while sitting at your kitchen table. I’ll bet it looks just like Jane Austen’s. It must’ve wobbled the whole time. And that big off-center crack must’ve been very inconvenient, especially since you probably wrote your book in pencil on five-cent ruled tablets, like Laura Ingalls Wilder of Little House fame.

But the great thing about pencil is that you can easily erase any mistakes you don’t want anyone else to see. It sure beats smashing a hard drive with a hammer, or wiping a server with a cloth and a bit of bleach.

The fact remains you’re like all women who aspire to be writers! You must write at the wobbly kitchen table on tablet paper because you’re too dead broke to buy a computer, even if it’s just a lousy Coleco, or a real desk with a proper chair. Or maybe you have a real desk, but Bill always has some bimbo underneath it, thanking him for keeping abortion legal. And your house is so small that there’s no spare room you can use for an office. Hillary, I feel your pain and I’d give you a hug if only your PR staff would arrange for me to have a chance encounter with you in the woods!

Remember the mother who dragged her daughter up to you to apologize for not voting for you? Well, the mother was Yelling Yelena, which makes me the daughter. It’s not that I didn’t vote for you—believe me, I wanted to—many times, in fact, if not for those damned voter ID laws and the godforsaken electoral college. But you’re also right about women not voting for you because the men in their lives—fathers, husbands, brothers, baby-daddies, pool boys, Russian strangers, etc., wouldn’t let them.

I should know. Every time I went to the polls, everyone working there—from the little old ladies who inspected my photo ID to the old geezer who gave me my free “I Voted!” sticker as I went out the door—they all just sat or stood there and didn’t say a peep while some guy followed me right into the voting booth and hovered over my shoulder, breathing down my neck.

I thought of telling him something along the lines of, “Back off, creep!” But all I could do was stand there with a stupid frozen smile on my face, gritting my teeth and nodding like you a bobble-head as he grabbed my hand and forced me to fill in the little bubble next to Trump’s name. Because like all women empowered by feminism, I’m as helpless as you without the government telling me what to do or how to think or even which bathroom to use.

And like you, I’ve always been told by everyone else to just grin and bear it and never fight back, like a good, submissive little victim of male oppression. Never mind that one of your campaign slogans proclaimed you were “Fighting for Us!” I don’t doubt you would’ve done just that, if not for all those people in your campaign holding you back, and Russia and Comey and Fox News and—well, you know the whole long list better than anyone. You’d have to, because you’re the smartest woman ever to exist. It’s true, because Verrit says so, and even has the authentication code to prove it!

At least we know you’d never call Kim Jong-Un “Rocket Man” and threaten to destroy North Korea—not when South Korea’s just within miles of it! Nope, you’d just smile and stiffly nod and close your eyes and think of the opportunity springing from the crisis of nuclear holocaust, in which you can rebuild the United States by faithfully implementing socialism.

Oh, and concerning this passage you wrote about the Women’s March:

Yet I couldn’t help but ask where those feelings of solidarity, outrage, and passion had been during the election.

Hillary! Such feelings were totally unnecessary during the campaign! You were a lock to carry every state on top of the popular vote! It was going to be the biggest landslide ever! It was a given! Why weren’t you at least 50 points ahead? For the past 25 years—for many of us, our whole lives or the better part of them—it’s been pounded into our heads till our brains are mush that Hillary Rodham Clinton will be our First! Woman! President! and that’s that and what’s more, I’ll bet Verrit has an authentication code for that, too. So what was there to be outraged about—until November 9th? We’re progressives—ergo, the Women’s March after Inauguration Day was nothing but a mass tantrum because we didn’t get our way! What else does anyone expect us to do?

Besides—what difference, at this point, does it make?

Forever your HO**...

Pinkie

*P.S. By the way, did you hear they’ve issued a new ten-pound note with Jane’s picture on it? Maybe they’ll do that for you in another 200 years, after we’re all dead and none of us will be around to enjoy it. That is, if there’s still any planet left after the ravages of climate change.

**P.P.S. Hillary Operative. Commissarka Pinkie is a regular contributor to The People’s Cube, and is dedicated to raising awareness of how much she cares. When she isn’t busy making an issue out of everything, she enjoys virtue signaling, hating Trump, and always looking for something to offend her.

Warning!I have recently completed my Government Hurricane Operators course and my first assignment is to create a Category 3 Hurricane to topple the sexist statue of the first woman governor in these 57 United States. I don't think Ms Nancy likes me because she gave me an assignment so far from an ocean. As a precaution, I am staying out of parks after dark.

Oh, Commissarka Pinkie, you are an inspiration to all of us female-identified beings. Perhaps YOU will be the First! Woman! President! -- or Marshall or Secretary General or whatever title will emerge in the glorious world of Next Tuesday.™

And please note that I am still wearing my (blush) kitteh hat even after the Wymyn's March has come and gone. Of course, the kitteh hat is part of my species identification as a kitteh, but as Our Heroine has said, at this point what difference does it make?

Indeed, Comrade Putout, there are many kinds of cardboard boxes, all of which must be closely monitored, licensed, and distributed by the State, with the appropriate kickbacks incentive bonuses taken off the top of the licensing and distribution fees and awarded to government licensing and distribution agents. For example, there are hiding-place boxes, litter boxes, dwelling boxes, materiele containment boxes, and of course premarked and prestuffed ballot boxes. It is a daunting task, but someone must do it.

Pinkie's open letter deserves to be published in the best media of the world, which is what the People's Cube is.

She is hereby awarded with even more prestigious medals from the kollektive to decorate her indignantly heaving chest.

Yes, we are fully aware that with all the previously awarded medals there may not be any place left for these two. Don't worry! We are in the process of organizing a petition to sponsor a grant for yet another government-subsidized breast enhancement procedure for Pinkie according to her needs. And as we can all see, her needs must supersede everyone else's, to allow for more medal coverage and more prominent indignant heaving.

Nay, nay, Pinkie does not need "enhancement" of any kind. She is sufficiently capable in herself of expanding to meet the exigencies of the Kollektive. And anyone who reads lascivious meanings into that statement is a hater and probably voted for the-name-that-I-refuse-to-utter-who-colluded-with-the-Russians.

I want you to know comrade I feel your pain! I presented Hillary with my own special version of her book yet she refused to sign it! It's definitely a sore spot for me! Seeing her now is very painful and makes me wonder if our failed would be leader will ever go away! What did I ever do to deserve this?

I want you to know comrade I feel your pain! I presented Hillary with my own special version of her book yet she refused to sign it! It's definitely a sore spot for me! Seeing her now is very painful and makes me wonder if our failed would be leader will ever go away! What did I ever do to deserve this?

The uncontested absurdities of today are the accepted slogans of tomorrow. They come to be accepted by degrees, by precedent, by implication, by erosion, by default, by dint of constant pressure on one side and constant retreat on the other - until the day when they are suddenly declared to be the country's official ideology. ~ Ayn Rand

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